The crowd, ever ready to assist, went in search of the required articles, while “Baldy” Malloy, the Whispering Creek stage-driver, went to the livery-stable to get the team, followed closely by Whizzer, whose spur tripped him every few feet.
But Whizzer did not whimper. He felt that the spur made him a cowpuncher, and he would wear that spur if it was the last thing he ever did. Whizzer’s mother had died shortly after he was brought into the world, and Whizzer had soon learned that there was little sympathy in the world for a cry-baby.
Not that Baldy did not love his son. He thought that the sun arose and set especially for Whizzer, and they were inseparable when Baldy’s trip was finished. Baldy was short, fat and bald, with weak, blue eyes and an insipid, rope-colored mustache.
Back they went from the stable with the team of half-wild bronchos, almost unmanageable when they scented the bear. Whizzer carried his spur in both hands, as he trotted along behind in the dust, his brown eyes wide with anticipation.
Two heavy planks had been secured, and some men were coming with a pole, which would be cut into short roller-lengths. One end of the cage was lifted onto the planks, which extended into the rear of the wagon-box, up which the cage was to be dragged.
At risk of losing one or both of his hands, La Clede managed to insert a rope through the bottom and side of the cage, tied it tightly and flung the loose end out over the front of the wagon.
The cage was tilted slightly and a roller inserted beneath.
“By , I don’t like that cage!” declared “Slim” Hunter, a sad-faced cowpuncher. “Them there poles ain’t fastened with nothin’ but rawhide.”
“By gosh, dey hold,” panted La Clede. “Plenty rawhide. She’s put on wet, an den she’s dry hout. Bettair den de nail.”
Baldy was having trouble with the team, which were frantic from the bear-scent and from the angry, deep-throated rumble of the big beast. With the help of two more men he managed to fasten the rope to the double-tree, and was ready for the loading.